Our Lady Of Greenwich Village (29 page)

O'Rourke smiled for the camera as he held the piece of cardboard up with both hands. Dorsey, defeated, offered no admonition. “We'll be right back after these important words from our sponsors,” was all he could muster.

B
ack in New York and back in the office it was
déjà vu
all over again. “This is White House Operator 1524,” said the voice, “stand by for the President of the United States.”

“Oh, no,” said McGuire, “not again.”

“Tone,” said the voice, hard and petulant, “this is Bill Clinton. I can't believe you just threw me under the bus again on Danny Dorsey's show. What did I do to you? Hillary's all upset.”

“Yeah,” interjected O'Rourke, “I'm sure she is.” McGuire hit O'Rourke on his Vietnam arm and O'Rourke winced.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.

“I did my best for this country,” the president said, “and I did well for Ireland too. Next time you're in Washington, stop by.” With that the president hung up.

“I think he's pissed at you.”

“No shit,” said O'Rourke. “If he'd get pissed at the Republicans as often as he gets pissed at me, he'd be a better president. The Clintons are to the Democratic Party what the British are to Ireland—all they leave is their stink.”

“Come on,” said McGuire, wincing at O'Rourke's words, “cut him some slack.”

O'Rourke shook his head. “Never,” he said, and McGuire knew he meant it.

“I
'm late,” said Sam McGuire casually, and O'Rourke instantly knew what she meant. He had probably missed more periods than most women. He remembered that Rebekah, out of a well directed guilt, used to miss a period every couple of months just for the fun of it. Grace usually had no periods because she drank so much. But eventually the blood would begin to flow again and O'Rourke had always assumed he was just shooting blanks.

“You take one of those pregnancy tests?” asked O'Rourke.

“Yep.”

“Well?”

“It was the right color.”

“So, it wasn't my scallops.”

“No, that was morning sickness on Sunday.”

“But you were using an IUD, right?”

“They work 99 percent of the time,” said McGuire.

This must have been the one-hundredth time, thought O'Rourke, and the IUD had turned into an IOU. O'Rourke was fifty-three, going on fifty-four, and he couldn't believe what he was hearing. “How are you feeling?”

“Just wonderful.” So was O'Rourke. He took Simone McGuire in his arms and hugged her like he had never hugged a human being before. Then they fell on the bed they had conceived their child in and the three of them hugged for the first time as a family.

“T
one, I don't know what to say,” said Clarence Black.

What's the matter?”

“You know Doodles Carney?”

“Doodles from Mayor Koch's security detail?”

“Yeah,” continued Black, “he's retired and works for me once in a while. I have him keeping an eye on this Costello fellow you're interested in down in D.C.”

“So?”

“Well, Doodles says Costello was meeting with a FBI agent by the name of Robert Hanssen?”

“Are you getting a red flag here?”

“My investigator says that Hanssen is a fanatical Catholic.”

“You mean he belongs to
Opus Dei
?”

“Yes,” replied Black, “he's been known to try to recruit young FBI agents into
Opus Dei
.”

“So how's he involved with Costello?”

“Costello, Hanssen, and the papal nuncio,” said Black, “had a meeting last night at eight o'clock.”

“Why is Doodles so amazed?” O'Rourke asked.

“Well, he's worked with the FBI a lot in New York, and he ran into the FBI while tracking Hanssen.”

“So we're tracking Costello,” said O'Rourke, “and the FBI is tracking Hanssen, and we're all bumping into each other at the papal nuncio's residence in Washington, D.C.”

“Doodles,” said Black, “was told to steer clear. That this was heavy stuff.”

“How heavy?”

“Espionage heavy,” said Black.

O'Rourke was quiet. “I don't know what to say. I was going to drop a dime on Costello any day now. You know, the IRA angle. Say he's Jack Costello, the boyo who took the shot at Maggie Thatcher years ago.” O'Rourke was pensive. “Don't know what to do now. Do you think Costello knows he's in this deep?”

“I think Costello is a politician,” said Black. “I think he is a money man for the Vatican. But I can't believe he's involved in espionage.”

“I agree,” replied O'Rourke. “Is there any kind of arrest for Hanssen imminent?”

“I don't think so.”

“Well,” said O'Rourke, “maybe Cyclops Reilly might want to know about the Reverend Dr. Costello and why he's hanging out with all these very proper, very upright, and very sleazy Catholics.”

O'Rourke, Reilly, and Black were at the end of the bar when Séan Pius Burke arrived. “Why do off-duty priests always dress like plainclothes cops?” said Reilly in greeting his cousin.

“Yeah,” agreed O'Rourke, “right down to the white socks and black shoes.”

“And how are you fucking guys?” said the Monsignor and all four of them laughed.

“Let's go in the back,” said O'Rourke. “We can sit at Bobby's table.” The cousins looked at each other but said nothing. O'Rourke, they knew, was very sensitive about Bobby Kennedy and rarely brought up his name without provocation. They went straight to Table One, left, in front of the window.

“Can I get you guys anything?” the waitress said.

“Refill,” said Reilly. “Vodka rocks.”

“I'd like a Jamey 12,” said the priest.

“Same here,” said Black of the Jameson.

“I'll be a good lad and stay in dry dock,” said O'Rourke.

“Where's Sam?” asked Reilly.

“I don't want to get Sam involved in this. Do you understand?” The cousins and Black all nodded.

“Shoot,” said Reilly.

“I called a friend at the Justice Department,” began O'Rourke. “He's one of Bobby Kennedy's old boys, one of the last, about to retire. I asked him about Costello and that Robert Hanssen character who Doodles stumbled upon at the Nunciate and he said he'd have to call me back. Well, he called me back from a friend's house because he didn't want to be heard talking about either of those two guys.”

“It's that serious?” asked Burke.

“My friend said he had only two words for me: ‘national security.' He told me not to get involved and that there was an ongoing investigation.”

“Is that all?” asked Reilly.

“He said,” added O'Rourke seditiously, “that we'll be reading about it on the front page of the
New York Times
very soon.”

“Fuck him,” said Reilly with sudden vehemence. The drinks were brought and the conversation ceased for a moment. “Fuck him and the FBI,” Reilly repeated. He was beginning to see the front page of the
New York Daily News
with his byline on it.

“Be careful, Cyclops,” said O'Rourke. “This is
very
serious stuff. If you write anything, do not mention Hanssen.”

“Why?”

“Because you'll find yourself in front of grand jury—or even worse!”

“They can't frighten me,” said Reilly.

“Yes, they can,” said O'Rourke. “Costello is a player in this, but I don't know what kind of a player.”

“So what do you want me to do?” asked Reilly.

The monsignor and O'Rourke looked at each other. Burke cleared his throat and spoke first, almost in a whisper. “Father Costello, I happen to know, is the pope's bagman in this country. He is trying to affect the outcome of elections this year with money.”

“I'm shocked,” said Reilly, and O'Rourke cracked a smile.

“He's giving money to my opponents,” said O'Rourke. “So I'd like to embarrass him.”

“He's putting the arm on the Cardinal,” said Burke, his voice in such a tight whisper that it could cut like a razor, “and I'd like to see him removed
permanently
.”

“So you want me to write something?”

“Like you
don't
want to write something?” teased O'Rourke.

“Fuck him,” said Reilly. “We'll see what kind of juice he has.” For a second he was quiet. “Putting the arm on the Cardinal?”

“Big time,” said Burke.

“Who can help me?” asked Reilly.

O'Rourke pointed across the table at Black.

“There's something else you should know, Cyclops,” said Black.

“Yeah?”

“There was another man of the cloth at that meeting with Hanssen, Costello, and the nuncio.”

“Like who?” said Reilly.

“Like New York City Councilman Menachem Mandelstam.”

Reilly pounded his fist on the table so hard that the sound echoed up and down the empty room. The waitress checked to see if anything was wrong. “Well, gentlemen,” said Reilly in a subdued voice, “we got the cocksuckers.”

“Because of Rabbi Menachem Mandelstam?” asked Burke.

“No Hands Mandelstam!” corrected Reilly, and a devious smile spread across his face.

Monsignor Burke looked at O'Rourke and said, “What's the connection?”

“The connection, I think,” said O'Rourke, “is that it's the beginning of the end for the Reverend Dr. Costello.”

“Madonna-Sue Fopiano learned the political trade working for Manny Mandelstam,” said Reilly, shedding some light on the connection between Mandelstam and the Fopianos. “When Vito got elected to Congress and moved to D.C., he left Manny to show Madonna-Sue the ropes. Mandelstam is a piece of work. Always loved having his picture taken with Meir Kahane or Ariel Sharon. He loves those Jewish Nazis.”

“Where'd that ‘No Hands' stuff come from?” asked O'Rourke.

Reilly started laughing. “I was a kid reporter about twenty-five years ago when all those massage parlors were opening in Times Square. The cops were going to bust them, so we went along with them for a story. We burst into this place on 42nd Street, go in the back room, and there's this black chick standing next to this guy who looks like a Hassidic rabbi.”

“She blowing him?” suddenly asked the monsignor and six eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“No,” said Reilly, smiling at his cousin with new respect, “that's the thing. He won't let her touch him. Won't touch himself either! Got his hands clasped in the air and he shoots without touching himself.”

“No hands!” said O'Rourke, laughing.

“That's it. ‘Why, Councilman Mandelstam,' says this big mick police captain, ‘I'm shocked by the behavior of a man of the cloth such as you!' And I see it's Mandelstam who's always saying the most terrible things about the
schwartze,
and he's there with this black chick.”

“Shit,” said O'Rourke.

“Well,” continued Reilly, “the photographer gets a real good picture of the good rabbi and the black hooker, and Mandelstam falls off the massage table and lands on the floor. His yarmulke floats after him like a parachute, lands on his hard-on. Another picture. He's desperate. He doesn't know what to do. So the Irish captain winks at me. ‘Maybe we should just overlook this, Cyclops,' says he. ‘A man of the cloth and a New York city councilman to boot!' I look at Mandelstam, and he says, ‘It's not a sin—no hands!'”

“You're shitting us,” said O'Rourke.

“God's honest truth. I let him ride. He's been in my pocket ever since.”

“Holy shit,” said O'Rourke. “So, he's your GOP mole.”

“I told him I'd snap him in half if he doesn't come through,” said Reilly. “Cheap bastard, too. The cop goes to arrest the hooker, and she says, ‘For what? I never touched the motherfucker. Comes in here three times a week, pulls out his weenie, waves his arms, and comes on himself. Tips me with a stiff one dollar bill.'”

“What does it all mean?” asked Burke.

“It means we know how Costello, Hanssen, and Mandelstam are connected,” said O'Rourke. “And because we know Mandelstam is involved we know that the Fopianos and Swift are connected. This is dangerous stuff. We'll have to be
very
careful.”